


Eyes of an Artist

by aurumnix



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art School!AU, Art Student!Steve, Artist!Steve, Bucky can't stop with the eye-sex, College!AU, Life Model!Bucky, M/M, Model!Bucky, Post Winter Soldier-looking!Bucky, Steve has the hots for the life model oh no, post serum!Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurumnix/pseuds/aurumnix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve fidgets with the corner of the rough paper. His pencil taps on the dirtied surface of his desk. He's anxious as all hell, but he can't quite understand why.</p><p>Maybe it's the impossibly attractive guy sitting on the stool in front of the class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes of an Artist

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, this is my first fic on AO3! And it just so happens to be a Stucky fic because we honestly just need a little more of Stucky in our lives. Artist!Steve and his muse, Life Model!Bucky is my absolute weakness, so have some of that. <3
> 
> On another note, I'm not exactly sure yet if this fic will have more than a few chapters or even if this is the only chapter it has. If it does progresses into other chapters, then it's a win-win!
> 
> Now, indulge yourselves in a little bit of Stucky, yeah?

Steve fidgets with the corner of the rough paper. His pencil taps on the dirtied surface of his desk. He's anxious as all hell, but he can't quite understand why.

Maybe it's the impossibly attractive guy sitting on the stool in front of the class.

Or maybe it's the fact that said guy is without a shirt, and he has that look on his face that knows people are looking, and people are _admiring_ , and he revels in that simple fact. Looks like he's fucking  _basking_ in it, actually.

But maybe the biggest thing that has Steve squirming in his seat - tongue between his teeth and knuckles almost white from the strain of holding so tightly onto his sketchbook - is how this life model is shamelessly giving him pointed glances like _Steve_ is the one up there at the front of the art room with an outright animalistic glint in his eye.

He catches the slightest flash of grey, and Steve fights back the rush of pink tingeing his skin. _You're supposed to be doing work, Rogers. Get your head on straight, dammit._ It's almost unfair how he seems to be the only one getting so worked up about this. His class uses life models all the time, and Steve is sure that he hasn't batted an eye at any single one of them before. Except, now he's doing so much more than that.

It frustrates him to no end.

And the brunette doesn't even look much older than Steve is, and that's just so unfair.

The room is quiet save for the familiar sounds of charcoal and lead on paper. Steve shuffles again in his seat. His eyes lift from the swift movements of his hand to the model. Once again, Steve hears his breathing hitch in his throat. Storm-cloud eyes are staring right at him. It's subtle enough that nobody else who looks over at him wouldn't think he was boring his eyes right into Steve's, but of course, _he_ notices because he just knows it's for him to see it. And the teasing, 'you-like-what-you-see?' quirk in his right eyebrow is enough to drive him right up the wall. It's the perfect mixture of relaxed, confident, and mouthwatering attractiveness, and Steve doesn't know what else to do but stare right back and hope to God this guy doesn't read minds.

It lasts far longer than Steve would like, but the horrifying thing is that Steve _doesn't actually mind_. He is too occupied with the hypnotising swirl of colour contained in that impossibly deep, sultry gaze. He's never seen eyes like these before in his entire life, and he is damn near sure no person on this earth should ever be allowed with those kinds of eyes. Steve's fingers twitch - he's aching to draw those goddamn eyes, and he needs to get it as _exact_ as humanly possible. The need to capture the pure, raw emotion this man is presenting to Steve with just his gaze is suffocating. His artist's mind flicks a switch in the back of his head, and it's like the minutes he spent trying his very best to maintain his cool pinned down by this guy's stare never happened.

Clear, bold lines cut through the immaculate white of the paper. The nervous tingling in his mind quiets. His brows furrow in concentration. Steve isn't sure of the time, but it feels like decades to him when finally, a face peers up at him from underneath the blunt end of his pencil.

It takes him a moment to realize that he has stopped. Frustration is making him want to claw his eyeballs out of its sockets as he looks down at the half-finished sketch. His leg bounces haphazardly.

 _No, the eyes aren't right. They don't look right. Not the same colour, not deep enough,_ he tells himself. Steve bites the inside of his cheek.

And whilst he's criticizing himself, he can sense those grey eyes on him again as if to say: 'Hey, pal, what you just drew doesn't even do justice to the real thing. See for yourself.' It's taunting him; Steve is so damn sure of it. He's _oh_ , so tempted to make that guy stop looking like Steve is food, and he hasn't eaten in years.

And when he does, Steve doesn't try to control the intensity of his own stare. He could see the easy confidence in the brunette's eyes falter for a fraction of a second before resuming that cocky disposition, and a part of Steve laughs, Now _who's getting all self-conscious?_ Eyes roam all over, taking in every line on his body, every minuscule ripple of tension as he orders his body to remain perfectly still, the way the light illuminates his dark hair enough that it shines a gentle auburn. Even the slight quirk of his lips as he looks right back as if it's the most normal thing in the world to be doing doesn't elude him.

Seconds, minutes, possibly hours pass before Steve averts his gaze. Never once did either of them break eye contact the entire time. Suddenly without the grey piercing his soul as though the owner's life depended on it, Steve allows himself to realize that his heart is pounding against his sternum and his spine is buzzing with an exhilarating sensation he can't identify. Faintly, he could hear the lilting voice of the professor announcing that they only had about an hour left of sketching.

Steve exhales a long, low breath.

His hands fly across the expanse of his sketchbook. _Scratch, scratch, scratch._ Dusty black covers the tips of his fingers and the side of his hand. A dull ache blooms in the back of his neck from being bent over his work, but Steve hardly gives it any thought. His bottom lip catches between pearly whites; they're red and plump from the rough treatment in minutes.

He completely immerses himself in his sketch, loosening his grip on the real world. Everything is reduced to background noise, and the only thing Steve cares about is getting this sketch right.

Steve only moves his hands faster, rougher. He needs to get the eyes right. If he doesn't, he doesn't know if he can live with himself; _come on, just a little more shading, one last line, and I'll stop. I need to get it right, get it right, get it -_

He jolts from the feather-light touch on his shoulder, and the slight gesture sends him sprawling right back into reality. "Mr. Rogers, I'm afraid you're going to have to stop. If you don't, I'm afraid that hand of yours might just fall off." Her voice is amused, but Steve doesn't miss the underlying command. Steve regains his bearings.

He stops and puts his pencil and sketchbook down. Steve gives a breathy laugh. "Ah, yeah, sorry. Must've not heard it the first time." The color rises in his cheeks, splotching the pale skin with a soft pink tinge. The tips of his ears turn a shade of crimson, but he quietly thanks his blonde hair for being long enough to at least make it unnoticeable.

And he can still feel those smug grey eyes burning holes into his forehead.

\--

Steve tries really hard not to let his mind wander; he swears he does. Yet, it's as if every time he consciously makes an effort, his brain does the exact opposite. Every image in his mind comes up as easy smiles and intense grey eyes. It's really kind of pathetic. Steve Rogers, getting utterly distracted by a guy he's only supposed to draw for a goddamn _grade_. Lord in Heaven, he shouldn't even be so frazzled over a fucking life model.

Someone's voice tries to grab his attention - "Look out!" - but Steve isn't listening. _Christ, you're not even gonna see him again, most likely. If I keep this up, I'm probably going to die early because I'll be too busy obsessing about_ those goddamn eyes and that stupid jawline _and get hit by an oncoming bus or fall into an open manhole because I'm acting like a twelve year ol -_

The impact sends Steve stumbling back, disoriented. The floor is starting to tilt sideways, and his head is swimming, and Steve doesn't know if he just inhaled a weird hallucinogen or he's finally going crazy after years and years of low-key ignoring. What in the hell even hit him in the first place? He groans. All this thinking isn't making the incessant throbbing in his brain go away any faster.

Hazy, Steve registers frantic hands all over him and a throaty voice that makes him want to shiver and melt into a puddle. " _Oh, shit._ Shit, I'm so sorry. I should'a looked out the window before opening the door, and _Jesus_ , that actually sounded real painful. You okay there, pal? Holy fuck, first day at this place, and I'm already gonna get my ass kicked for accidentally hitting someone with a fucking _door_." Steve doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or turn into putty in this guy's hands.

When his head clears and his vision stops spinning, he chooses the latter.

Steve inhales sharply through his nose because _oh my sweet lord, those eyes are so deep you can literally drown in them._

The swirls of grey hold concern, and brows pinch together; Steve's heart does a fucking backflip in his chest.

Then he remembers that he's still on the floor, and the same life model guy from his art class - _who, by the way, Steve, was naked above the fucking waist not less than half an hour ago, just so you know_ \- is so damn close that he can smell the scent of faint cologne and _something else that drives him nuts_ and - _God_ , Steve really needs to get himself under control. It's nearly impossible, but he attempts to stammer out a breathless, "U-Uh, yeah, I'm fine, really."

Now, the concern is replaced with amused relief, and he's smiling a smile that nearly has Steve fighting back the near-mortifying desire to tackle him to the ground, rip the clothes right off of the both of them, and fuck him until he forgot his own name. Grey Eyes chuckles and reaches out a hand. "Thank God. Promise you're not gonna breathe a word about this to no-one?" Steve wants to say he's willing to do anything for this guy as long as he gets to kiss the hell out of those lips, but he restricts himself with a nod and wide eyes.

His bones lose all purpose whilst he gets pulled up. Steve knows full well that Grey Eyes is more than a little fit, but he thinks he actually _forgets_ how to move the muscles in his body when he's pulled to his feet without even so much as a strain. Grey Eyes says something; Steve's too mindless to notice until he feels that intense stare on him again, expecting something.

"I, uh - I mean, um, can you repeat that? Sorry." Steve wants to dig himself a hole and stay in it for eternity, but if Grey Eyes notices, he refuses to comment on it. "Yeah, no, you're all good. I did hit you with a door. But, uh, you're the guy from the earlier class, right?" - an expression so close to _shyness_ Steve is stunned for a moment crosses his face - "I'm Bucky, by the way. Bucky Barnes. Was wondering what your name was so I don't keep callin' you 'pal' or somethin' or awkwardly saying nothin' after the end of my sentences." This guy's acting like he wasn't even flaunting his Greek-statue body for hours in class, and Steve's slightly jealous that he can pull it off so well, and he can't do a single thing.

If Steve wasn't so busy trying to gather his frazzled nerves and the shards of his dignity, he might have said something about the look on Grey Ey - _no, Bucky's_ \- face. His mouth, however, has a different agenda, it would sound like. It runs faster than Steve could ever hope to catch it, and the words are already flying right out of his mouth. "Bucky, huh? Your parents have some kind of thing against you, or do they just really like naming their kids really interesting names?"

The bark of a laugh that gets knocked right out of Bucky drags Steve right out of his jumpy brain. A smile of his own reaches his face because honestly, this guy's just really contagious, and it should be goddamn _illegal_ in Steve's book. It takes a moment for Bucky to recompose himself, but he's still letting out snorts of amusement even after explaining that 'Bucky' is apparently just a nickname for his actual name, James Buchanan Barnes.

"Guess I should be glad my ma named me something a hell of a lot easier than James Buchanan," he jokes, and he swears Bucky says 'fuckin' punk' underneath his breath while rolling his eyes at the friendly jab. "But yeah," he continues, sticking his hand out, "my name's Steve Rogers. And typically, I'd say nice to meet you, but you did kinda almost knock me out."

Bucky snorts, but he shakes Steve's hand anyway, "Hey, now, it's not entirely _my_ fault. You looked like you were starin' right out into space."

He does have a point. And Steve's kinda annoyed that he can't argue with something else.

Bucky kicks at the ground, and a silence that could only be described as 'easy' settles in between them. "Anyway, uh, it was nice meetin' ya, Steve, really. Wouldn't mind bumping into you again soon."

"As long as it doesn't involve me getting a concussion, the feeling's mutual, Bucky."

Bucky can't help another onslaught of chortles from overcoming him, and his body shakes along with the glee. "You're a punk, ya know that?" Steve's torn between wiping the smirk off of his face or going absolutely boneless at the sight of it, but he returns one of his own. Bucky shakes his head in good nature. "Says the guy that nearly broke my face," he fires back.

The brunette says something else in the smallest mumbles Steve didn't even know was possible. "Sorry, what was that?" His eyebrow crooks upward; Bucky shrugs it off with an offhanded comment: "Nothing. Don't worry 'bout it."

Steve's posture slumps a little when Bucky says he has to get going, but he salvages whatever dignity remains in him and tries not to look so disheartened. Unfortunately for him, Bucky apparently has an eye for these types of things, because he's looking right at him again with the same stare he was giving Steve earlier while he was posing for the class.

And, really, Steve's an _adult_ , so he really shouldn't feel like his heart is jumping right up in his throat and his breaths are coming so fast and shallow that he's worried his childhood asthma is coming back when Bucky stops walking for a heartbeat and says, "Now, don't go missin' me too much, yeah? Definitely ain't gonna be the last you see of me. See ya, Stevie."

 _Stevie_. He called him fucking _Stevie_.

For God's sake, that nickname was something Sarah Rogers said all the time when he was incredibly skinny and frail and stuck in a hospital bed, so why the hell is it affecting him so much now?

Those grey eyes stare right into his soul again as if to say: 'Yeah, like you don't know the answer to that?'


End file.
